Drabbles: Fulcrum
by Shadowed Chaos
Summary: (Drabble series focusing on Fulcrum that ties into his past in Way of your World.) 2 - Part one of Styx - or Fulcrum would really like to live through hell, thanks.
1. Chapter 1

_I have no excuse other than he was on my brain after re-reading MTMTE. Another side project to keep me sane through what IRL is throwing at me, plus the main story isn't going to let me explore Fulcrum and Co in any great detail aside from Krok._

 _I headcanon the Decepticon language as kin to Australian English, yet I hope the slang used is relatively easy to understand._

* * *

 **i -;**

"Are you Cadet Fulcrum?"

"Yes, and I'm _run off my feet_ ," the young Cadet didn't even look up, too focused on fixing the latest slew of errors associated with his job, and _fix_ them he would. He'd never failed, and he wasn't about to start now. The voice didn't trip any alerts, so it probably wasn't that important; just another warrior wanting time and energy he did not have to spare. Like _always_. "I'm sure there are a bunch _other_ techies you can go harass for what y'want."

"Negative. We require your services. They were recommended by-."

"You and _sixty_ other mecha have said the _same_ thing t'megacycle," he snapped, still not looking up as fingers flew over the keypad. To the techie, it was just another Combat-class who'd heard 'Fulcrum can do _anything_ '. "I'm busy- scrap-slagging product of a glitch-"

A snarl and he hunched over as fingers literally flew over the keypad, while yellow-gold optics zipped back and forth as the data scrolled down the screen. Behind him, the Combat-class waited. Fulcrum could feel the amusement rolling off it each time he hit the console or insulted it in increasingly clever and demented ways. The Cadet twitched, but he'd learned within the first half-vorn of Cadetship to deal with the warriors by ignoring them.

It worked, _most_ of the time, because the slaggers got bored and wandered off to find someone not neck deep in work.

"Are you finished?"

"Urgg no. Fragging thing's about to cark it. Too many system errors that're sparking CBFs allover the joint, and I wouldn't be surprised if sum'on' shoved a virus in there as well, meaning _I_ 'll be jackin' with only an EF to safeguard me," he rambled, Kaonite dialect slipping into his speech as he punched in the code to get the external firewall brought over. Most, if not all, Decepticons understood it due to the original core of them coming from the city-state and her allies, but if one slurred the glyphs, it was harder to understand. "'Cause our jobs aren't hard enough _as is_!"

The warrior was silent, and Fulcrum could hear a faint, barely there hum of thought. Likely attempting to translate him, the Cadet thought. The voice sounded posh - Nyonin, perhaps - and like something he wanted to punch. It reminded him too much of his creators' 'contract-owners', before the pair had killed them and fled to the Decepticons. "What I desire can wait. I'll ensure no-one else disturbs you, technician."

Fulcrum grunted, waving him off as he snatched up a datapad, hardlining the thing in to get a better look at _what_ was going on while he waited for one of the younger Cadets to bring the EF over. Better he have _some_ idea than go in blind. Last time he'd done that he'd wound up in medical and his Supervising Officer, Cloudkill, had almost blown a gasket over the whole fiasco. More to the point, to aid a warrior like the one speaking to him in what they wanted... It didn't bring up good memories, even _if_ he knew mecha who sounded like that and were the kindest people in the universe.

Blood Kill came to mind; mech was a built like a literal killing machine, yet one of the most skilled surgeons they had, and he was a pacifist too. Last he'd heard, the mech had been confined to New Tarn with a Unit of bodyguards. Not that he blamed them; pacifists often ended up some of the most gifted or skilled Support they had. Protecting that was vital. No Support, no army and even the youngest sparkling knew _that_.

Pity the Autobots didn't seem to understand that; ah but they were civilian frames, not designed for a war they'd brought on themselves by alienating the very classes designed to keep them safe. Tch, oh well. Eventually they'd _have_ to see reason, eventually.

It wasn't until the warrior was almost out of sight that Fulcrum looked up in time to catch the retreating back of a purple tank. He shrugged, dismissing the notion of anything important. Purple and tanks happened more than not because Cadets and newly adulted mechs and 'bright ideas' born from one too many drinks. At least it wasn't last vorn's fluro purple, which several of his agemates _still_ sported.

There was classy; then there was _tacky_.

He didn't manage to connect the peace and quiet to the tank that had visited. As far as he cared, Cloudkill had probably had something to do with it (he was her star Cadet after all); the sooner he could get this done, the faster he'd move to the next job, and the one after, and the next, until one of his Unit dragged him away for recharge.

Hmph. He didn't need recharge; he _needed_ peace so he could work and prove his worth and _maybe_ get assigned to a Unit at the top of the class. Or, he silently hoped, Cloudkill would keep him on as part of her Unit's Support.

 **ii -;**

"Ah-" he squealed as Cloudkill all but shoved him into the loading room. "I- Cloudkill-"

"Load up with a weapon, Fulcrum," she said with a sigh. "As long as you have it and are on the field, you can hide _all_ you want."

"O-Ok." He grabbed the first gun in the rack; it happened to be an outmoded sniper rifle, but he didn't care, and the magazine of coloured oil pellets. A war-game was a war-game, and the rest of the Supportmechs who'd been picked to play had entered without much fuss. So, with a deep intake, he marched himself through the door, acknowledging the RNG'd number as it beeped onto his wristband that would then project it over his head. _Five_.

He almost purged. Of course he got the _death number_. His luck was bad, yet he followed the lines to where his RNG'd 'team' awaited, giving them the barest of nods as he looked up at the monitor that showed the layout to the 'battlefield' they'd play in. If he was lucky, he could reach one of the high ground sniper positions fast.

He didn't have much time to think on it - Cloudkill _had_ been right after him; the alarm sounded, the gates opened, and they were rushing out into the battleground, some of the more gung-ho warriors whooping in delight.

He veered left as soon as he could, optics flicking side to side, gun at the ready until he spotted the ramp that'd take him to the sniper's hideaway. He darted up it, living up to his alt-mode's frametype of racer. Crouching against the far corner, his thoughts raced. He could hide here, and maybe, maybe if he was lucky, get a few shots in.

He doubted it though. His natural reaction to the battlefield was to freeze or flee, and flee was so very, _very_ out of the question. Likely why he'd been 'volunteered'; being three megavorn old and freezing to the point of locking up even on a mock battlefield was embarrassing and incompetent even for a Support-class. To say nothing of freezing on an actual battlefield and even the most egotistical Support would admit that was _Very Very Bad_.

Fulcrum swore he'd do the best to push past the fear. He had too, if only for his own pride. His finger rested around the trigger while the other hand attempted to choke the gun itself.

He didn't even notice he wasn't alone until the sound of an oilball rifle fired - from beside him.

Fulcrum glanced up; it was one of his team, nothing to worry ab - and bleated static while his spark attempted to escape through his closed sparkplates as he realised _who_ it was.

 _Oh fragging Primus on Unicron_ -

The gunformer held up one finger in a Shh motion before turning back to the battlefield, expertly snipping several not on their team. Fulcrum dry-swallowed, wisely shut up and turned his attention back to his own gun-sights even as anxiety set in. Fragging slagger on Unicron's rusty horns, he _had_ to make a 'kill' now.

Eventually, a mech came into view, and eager to impress the Very High Ranked Decepticon beside him, he fired, gun jerking in recoil. The oilball hit the purple mask dead centre, and the mech cocked his helm to the side, reaching up to rub at the oil before pulling his hand away, staring at the oil as if in disbelief.

Beside him, the gunformer snickered, firing off several shots, one of them _very_ pointedly hitting the purple tank's sparkplates. Fulcrum stiffened, wanting to look away yet unable. It was like the wreck of a warworld, only far more likely to kill you. Instead of reacting with anger, the purple tank gave an exaggerated bow before removing himself from the battlefield as per the rules.

Risking a glance beside him, Fulcrum boggled as Vos flashed him the victory sign.

"Really? The sparkplates of all things?"

"Showing off for the Support that was hiding there."

"A Support?" A hand reached up to touch the mask. "They must have wanted to impress."

"Naturally," the gunformer said as he clambered up to sit on his friend's shoulder. "We should play more often."

The purple tank chuckled before exventing. "When we have the time, we will play again. It was rather entertaining."

"Perhaps with the Command-Cohort."

Tarn turned his head slightly to stare up at Vos. "Against Krok and Soundwave? Hardly."

He valued his processor, and he neither wanted, nor desired, to go up against either of them, even if it was 'just an oilball game'.

 **iii-;**

Fulcrum's first _true_ face-to-face actual introduction to one of his _new_ Unit came via a mech he'd seen - interacted? with before. Namely onlining to the gunformer crouched _on top_ of him, head cocked considering to the side and that wasn't at all the most pleasant, or safest, thing to online to in the history of onlining.

Fulcrum was Decepticon enough to admit his spark almost guttered from fear alone, that his mind automatically assumed the look was his assailant picturing how to vivisect him, and Fulcrum was very, very aware of _everything_ he had and had not done in his short megavorns of life. Up to and including the oilball war-game in the last vorn when he'd shot that ... purple... tank.

 _Of course_ he'd shrieked and flailed like a sparkling.

It was his default reaction to warriors getting handsy - or crouchy in this case. What techie wouldn't? It didn't help that the Ninja laughed at his shrieking, flailing and general attempts to crawl out from under him. He hadn't managed to even after half a bream, so with growing unease, Fulcrum settled, the only sign of how thoroughly terrified he was was one highly, highly charged EM-field.

Oh, and that he looked anywhere but what he was sure was _Approaching Doom on a scale of I am So Very Fragged_.

He knew what Vos looked like; it was hard not to when he'd briefly teamed with the sniper back then. Yet the rest of the D.J.D. he'd only dealt with through Kaon over a viewscreen as he took down whatever orders for the logistics team; be it for weapons, energon, or t-cogs for Tarn. Fulcrum wasn't sure he wanted to meet the D.J.D. in person, or Kaon. She was happy, calmingly sweet, yet she had hooks for hands and feet, and was the colour of dried energon and possessed baleful, malevolent golden-red optics deep set into her face.

And she was a mnemosurgeon.

Fulcrum never wanted to deal with them, ever. He was a good Supportmech who could fetch things on cue. Cloudkill had trained that into him herself even after he'd been assigned to her Unit for real.

So the worst thing he'd ever done was ask Kaon to repeat herself - or hit Tarn dead centre in his mask with an oilball. "Uh-"

Vos snickered again and Fulcrum blanched, silently praying someone would come looking for him _right now_ , please and thank you. He did not want to die!

"Vos."

Fulcrum's spark screembled in its casing. Oh. Oh. That sounded like th...

He was so very _Very Doomed_. Scratch everything, he'd mouthed off to _Tarn_ as a Cadet. He was so very, very, very doomed. There was going to be nothing left of his frame fpr them to find.

"Unless you plan to replace the poor thing's processor, kindly get off our newest Support."

And just like that Vos was off him, and Fulcrum was scrambling up and off the berth, though not backing away. He knew better than to flinch or scramble away from those so high above his rank it made his head spin. He almost tripped over himself to stand at attention, yet he managed to straighten even as he stared wide opticked at his supposed saviour. Really? _Really_? What had he done to merit this? Vaguely, he noticed he was the only Supportmech still in the barracks. But that was unimportant.

The D.J.D. were before him, the two Founders -

"Wait, what-" He stared, replayed Tarn's words - orders? - again. And stared some more, this time sure his processor and cortex were both shorting out on him while they attempted to murdernate him for daring to question _Tarn_.

"You have been assigned to us. I trust you wish to remain stationed here?" Tarn said, as if he had not just broken the processor of an already stressed mechanoid.

"Uh-" Fulcrum blinked, swallowed, and snapped off a hastily salute as protocol _finally_ caught up with him like a hammer to the helm. "Y-Yes, Sirs, if that is what you intend. I-."

"Good. Report to Kaon to receive your 'tags within the next half-cycle."

Fulcrum nodded dumbly. He could do that. Then he could go hide away and crash in peace while he processed _what the slag_ had happened. He knew the D.J.D. had support and logistics. All Units did, yet the D.J.D. never took anyone under twenty megavorn as their Support. What - Unless it was his skills they wanted, in which case he was so _very, very doomed_. He was talented, but he was no Outlier. They'd kill him when they found out.

Hastily, he reset his vocaliser as the pair turned to leave. "W-Wait."

"Yes?" Tarn half turned to stare at him.

"W-What of Cloudkill's-?"

"Regretfully in pieces. They had the misfortune of encountering the Wreckers."

Fulcrum knew he blared static as he crumpled to the ground in shock.

"You have my sympathies," Tarn continued. "The Unit was your Cadet Mentor, correct?"

"Y-Yes, Sir." Fulcrum nodded, only to swallow and flinch back when Vos said something that sounded like 'condolere'. "Um.."

"Our sorrow is with you," Tarn said helpfully yet almost offhandedly. "It's Primal Vernacular."

And then they were gone, and Fulcrum shook, hugging himself in disbelief. Cloudkill was gone. Dead. Killed by the Wreckers and it had to be recent, because they never waited more than a half-megacyle before reassigning Supports that'd been attached to Dead Units.

-and he'd been assigned to the D.J.D.

Fulcrum knew the survival rates were... lower than normal for those attached to Special Units. He was going to screw up and _die_ , and running away wasn't an option at all. They'd hunt him down and make an example out of him, and he _liked_ living thank you very much.

Somehow, he made it to the Infra-tag assignments to meet Kaon, who was also sorry for his loss, yet detached from it as she gave him the new infra-tags that marked him as D.J.D. Support; the Unit tag now reading _#Support nine (D.J.D.)_. He didn't think he could deal with it if she hadn't been like that; yet it was War, and they were _Decepticons_. If he was hollow-eyed and somewhat distracted the next time he reported to his new Unit Commander, no one said anything; they wouldn't, unless his grief lasted more than an orn.

They were at _War_. He could grieve properly for his friends when War's End came.

Until then, he was _Warbuild_ , and he had jobs to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**(Part one of Styx - or Fulcrum would really like to live through hell, thanks.)**

"This is _madness_!"

"Yes."

"Styx was supposed to be safe! He _promised_ -"

"It's _war_ ," the other techie said bluntly, and Fulcrum hated them because it was true.

War, yes, but this- this was madness incarnate. A chaos he'd not seen in several gigavorn since Charon had gone up in flames.

"And, he's on the battlefield."

Along with almost every other warrior they had, but that was not the point. The point was this posting was – had been – safe. Away from the frontlines, even if it was heavily fortified because it sat over one of their larger scale energon mining operations.

"Yes, and we lost contact with the outside a cycle ago-" Fulcrum hissed, jumping as yet another shell impacted. If only Soundwave was here, then maybe they wouldn't be trying a fool's errand-

Frag, this was reminding him of Charon, and that still upset him, never mind he'd managed to bring in an Autobot prisoner, and that had been easily the most harrowing experience of his life, thank you very much. He was a techie, supportframed and coded and in no way built for any kind of combat because he was not a fragging warhead.

Though that prisoner had shot him, a notoriously _N O P E_ to combat techie (because he liked living, thank you very much), up several notches in Tarn's optics. He was no ranked alongside Nickle, and he wasn't sure what made an unattached -he assumed because he'd never seen her linx with anyone- Minicon so valuable to Tarn.

That rank was a Good Thing. Still, he'd liked Charon. It'd been out of the way like Styx. He'd been able to do the work given to him in peace, even if it had been challenging and he'd been forced to think outside the cube, and he might have accidentally invented a better way of defragging memories, but.

Details.

And, this was not Charon.

Mostly because Charon did not have heavy artillery shells impacting against reinforced steel with heavy, dangerous booms that bespoke sustained fire with alarming regularity. It'd punch through soon.

Charon had gone up in flames because of some Autobot several cubes to crazy with a death wish, far too much firepower and 'a burn them all' attitude.

Yet, like Charon, the Bunker was slowly turning into a death trap and Fulcrum was doing his Very Best, Thank You, to remain calm. Notorious for Noping out of combat or not, Support or not, he was a fragging _Decepticon_ , and keeping his helm above the surging panic and Oh Slag would keep him alive.

"What about the gunners?"

"Dead," Fulcrum hissed. Dead and the gunner stations slagged into nothing more than twisted metal. "If we had gunners, you think _this_ would be happening?"

"No, Sir."

Fulcrum shook his head as he watched the remaining -probably stressed out and wanting to shoot things- warriors scramble to protect the Support as they attempted to evacuate them as fast as possible, thankful he was one of those trying to re-establish connections to the outside, even though he knew it was a useless task. Unless they could wrangle up a miracle, they were slagged.

Because attempted evacuation was the keyword.

One of the escape ships had already been shot down by an Autobot carrier and another had gone dark - they feared it boarded, the crew dead or prisoners. They would probably never know its fate.

It rankled because along with 'non-essential' Support, they'd pushed as many Cadets as they could onto those escape ships, and if Fulcrum made it through this, he would _never_ take gunner support for granted again.

He also wanted to know how the Autobots even had the firepower for this but that could come later.

Warriors bristled in anger as another hit rocked the place, sending debris showering down on them. It was only a few more hits, and the bunker would crack open. Yay. Wonderful. Fulcrum tried not think of all the snarled insults and threats of the worse calibre spat by the warriors as they paced around the Support that remained, offering a friendly brush of EM-fields here, the heavy calming weight of a hand there. It was all they could do.

They'd thought the Bunker would be safe. That it wouldn't be targeted by the Autobots.

"Listen up, soldiers." Fulcrums's plating fluffed and he dropped the wires in his hand as Grindcore's voice snarled across the comms. _Nonono_ \- "We all know the only way out is to _fight_. Stay close to us, and we'll get you out of this."

Fulcrum found a gun shoved into his hands by a hulking helio. "You ready, Support?"

"Y-Yes!" He stuttered out even as he swallowed, trying, and failing, to keep his terror from bleating across his 'field. The helio scowled, but thankfully, said nothing as it moved onto the next Support.

Yay and not. They had teleporters, yet he knew the only ones remotely close enough still wouldn't make it in time, and even if they could, there was a limit to how many a teleporter could take, how many teleportations they could do before they burned out, and it would not be enough to turn the tide, and even if Soundwave was here, even _he_ had a limit. It sucked, and Fulcrum could only hope the Outliers they had on the field were enough, and that was assuming the field hadn't changed since he'd last seen it a cycle ago.

They were effectively screwed in the evac, and he was suddenly very, very grateful that Tarn and his Unit were out on the battlefield, not here to witness his slow breakdown.

Because He knew Tarn would not, never, ever, be impressed. He had zero patience or tolerance for any form of cowardice; Fulcrum had seen the results firsthand. It wasn't pretty.

Yet, he was D.J.D. Support Unit, and he needed to keep his head, or he was going to _dieeeeeeee_.

Invent, invent.

They'd have to fight their way out; there was no other choice. They couldn't cloak the escaping transports fast enough to keep them from being attacked or shot down, and all they could hope was some got through.

Hopefully.

And Grindcore's voice filled his comms. "Let's go!"

* * *

He couldn't go back even if he wanted to, and stepping out on to the battlefield was a nightmare, even as he followed the warriors that were attempting to herd the frankly terrified Support mechs to relative safety. Trained for combat, _yes_. He'd seen images and undergone the training, he'd been in oilball fights and Auto-Con and other war games and managed decently enough he could pass muster. He'd had it drilled into him what to do if he ever was in combat, but seeing it and being there, in the middle of an all too real fight for _survival_ that _wasn't_ a game were too wholly and utterly different things.

He faltered, almost tripping, and looked down and wished he hadn't.

It was an arm. Still bleeding, still fresh, not yet greyed out.

His spark hitched, joints locked and froze for several precious klicks as other Decepticons streamed around him.

It was likely what saved him from the shells that landed several metres ahead.

He _screamed_ and ran as fast as he could to the nearest thing that could be hidden behind. His racer frame got there quite fast, thank you very much. He did not want to be here, wanted to be back in the Bunker or in the tunnels or the mines or on one of those escape ships even if there was the risk of getting shot down and he wished they could get ships here faster, but they hadn't perfected warpdrives (and thankfully neither had the Autobots) yet.

Here was bad, here was terrifying. He wasn't built or coded for this!

Something exploded nearby, and the racer let out an unholy shriek and huddled against his makeshift shelter, arms over his head. Primus on Unicron on Pyrovar, he was a _data technician with near-magical fix-skills_. He shouldn't be out here.

Maybe the Bunker -

His spark lurched at the rubble that had once been the entrance, then again as he peeked out at the field.

There was only one way he had a chance of getting out of this alive and that was making a mad dash across the field and that was assuming safety could even _be_ found.

Invent, exvent. Don't whimper because he was better than that and this was the battlefield and he was a _Decepticon_. Check the gun-

He made a break for it, firing on any Autobot he could. Somehow, he always managed sparkshots. He didn't know if that was good or bad or what, only that it meant fewer Autobots firing at him - them. Once or twice, he thought he had a warrior by his side, but he didn't know, didn't care.

He wanted to get to safety, or at least something he could feasibly hide behind and be safer than out in the open and why had he even thought this was a good idea-

He stumbled, tripped yet kept going. He saw things he never, never wanted to see again. He heard the plasma fire of canons. Tarn, he knew. The other one -

He caught sight of a silver mech in the thick of things, firing off a fusion canon while swinging swords around in a lethal, lethal dance, while nearby a red and orange frame spun as if they were fire incarnate, slashing and hacking at anything that got too close, and near them dark blur wielded – well. He wasn't sure what it was other than some kind of weird sword. Or was it a gun?

Didn't matter.

Megatron and some of his Unit had been visiting (and he knew the _Nemesis_ was up in orbit engaged against a number of Autobot ships that where, he could only assume, running interference, and if the D.J.D. hadn't docked the _Peaceful Tyranny_ in for repairs, then Tarn's personal ship would have been raining pitfire on the Autobots) and they had two Gestalt Units active on the field, and they were still losing ground, still dying.

He thought he heard a _GET CLEAR_ screamed across the comms as two massive hulking behemoths seemed to tumble across the ground, locked in combat.

Monstructor and one of the Autobot Gestalts.

Carnage followed in their wake and if he looked elsewhere, he could see Piranahacon attempting to ground some of the Autobot carriers while he tore his own swath of carnage. But Pirahnacon was over there and Monstructor was here -

Fulcrum found himself scramming away from it -

and almost face-first into what seemed to be a scene out of his worst nightmares only a multitude worse. He knew the D.J.D. tended to be kept on a leash; that went without saying. Casually terrifying everyone was part of the Job; causally assaulting anyone who breathed a word of discontent or dissent wasn't (though he knew they did it _anyway_ because they were jumped up slaggers who enjoyed leaving a wake of terror in their paths).

Yet when they were allowed off the 'leash'...

He shuddered and scrambled back, praying to Primus the fraggers weren't fragged to the gills on Nuke, that they still had some sanity. Yet, looking around the area, he knew that was a very, very slim chance. Tarn was covered in Energon and he thought he saw a patch of blue on the mech's back, but that could be anything.

Vos leapt from Tarn's hand, transforming in midair to land -

Fulcrum's spark almost gutted in terror before he realised it wasn't a sparkeater but a Stalker – who was tearing into the Autobots with fire and fury and he even used one as a launching platform and -

The less said about that, the better, only that it was messy. Messier than Kaon and her playtime with hooks and she was getting _creative_ -

Slagslagslag - he knew they existed, but he thought Stalkers clung to the shadows and chased away the demons and sparkeaters and other wonderful terrors from the Underdark, not lurked in the ranks-

It explained how Vos always seemed to come out of the shadows at the strangest of times though, and it maybe gave credence to the rumours that the rifleformer was one of Warmonger's many, many offspring, though he was pretty sure if the Phase-Sixer had sired a Stalker-.

But that was _not_ a line of thought to follow on the battlefield, and as the frightened technician looked around he found he could see several other Stalkers, all of them mired in battle, all of them drenched in energon. He'd heard tales of Stalkers, of how they protected their people from the Things that came from the Under.

It was, in a very twisted way, fitting they were in the ranks, but even they weren't invincible and he thought he heard Vos shriek as one of the Autobot's grabbed Vos, and Tarn seemed to take offence to that and Fulcrum did not want to think about what he was seeing.

Because he needed to think about how to get out of here _alive_.

Hopefully without being drawn into the energonbath that was the D.J.D. and those brave sparks fighting alongside them. Though, they were more herding the sorry sparks of Autobots to their deaths than helping kill.

Fulcrum decided he liked living; he knew what they were like when high on Nuke, and he did not doubt they were high on the stuff. He had seen the results up close and personal, had felt Vos's hands on him while the fragger was high as a kite and about as sane as a shattered Seeker.

Had felt Vos's hands on him a few times and not all of it had been pain and the first time-

He cut that line of thought. _Not_ the time, thank you.

He needed to be out of here. As of last megacycle.

With that thought on his mind, he transformed and gunned his engine, zipping off across the field, and hopefully towards safety.


End file.
